


When Winter Comes...

by KingOfWinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfWinter/pseuds/KingOfWinter
Summary: The Others won the war, and Westeros was plunged into the endless winter of the Long Night. Cold Gods stalk the lands and heroes are few and far in between. Lord Snow is spent and done, spending his days wandering the wastes of Westeros. Far to the south, a plan is hatched and a messenger dispatched to find Lord Snow. What adventures will follow?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	When Winter Comes...

**Author's Note:**

> Just a new fic I'm writing. It won't be too long, only a few chapters. (Hopefully not more than five)

**When Winter Comes...**

* * *

The wind howled through the trees, and the snow fell so thick and so hard that a man was likely to be buried within minutes of stepping out in it. Already the sides of the mountains were full, and the distant rumblings suggested that it was already too much and the avalanches had begun.

Within the cave the grizzled man in the black cloak huddled closer to his fire. No one had ever told him that he was tall, but there was a certain grace about him regardless. The youth this man had once been blessed with had fled from his face. Grey streaks ran through his beard and long hair, while his skin was worn and weathered. Scars adorned his left cheek, while his eyes were black pits devoid of youthful optimism.

He was an old warrior, and one that men and monsters rightfully feared. At his side rested a sword famed from the ruins of the Wall to Sunspear. _Longclaw_ it had been named eons ago. It was one of the few blades left that had any hope defending against the cold gods who haunted the night. The cold gods had learnt long ago to leave this one alone though.

He had killed too many of them for them to risk coming after him again. Those who ruled winter and darkness feared him greatly.

The flames danced amongst the twigs and logs the man had gathered, hungrily consuming them and exuding the life giving warmth that was so hard to come by nowadays. The sun seldom dared to show her face anymore, the days were short and the nights incredibly long.

Most had fled for the lands across the seas. There the sun still shone, and steel could still beat back those that lurked in the dark places.

Not in this land though.

Not in Westeros.

A ghost stirred in the mouth of the cave and a great white direwolf the size of a horse padded in. Its eyes were as red as blood, and the same colour coated it’s maw. Within it’s teeth it held a rabbit, gaunt and thin but nourishing nonetheless.

The man grunted in appreciation as he took the rabbit from the wolf’s mouth. “Good boy.” He murmured as he scratched the wolf behind the ear.

The wolf whined and turned to the cave entrance and it was only then that man noticed the boy standing in the entrance of the cave. His hand flew to his waist and he ripped _Longclaw_ from it’s scabbard. The Valyrian Steel hissed as it whipped through the air. “The last man to sneak up on me like that ended up with two feet of Valyrian Steel sticking through his heart.” The man growled, “Tell me now why I shouldn’t gift you with the same?”

The boy stepped into the cave proper nervously. From the light of the fire, the man could make out his features. He was of middling height with long brown hair and the beginnings of a fuzzy beard on his chin and cheeks. He looked familiar, and the sight of him filled the man’s heart with grief.

_Gods he was young. So young._

“Lord Snow?” The boy asked tentatively as he took another step forward, “Jon Snow?”

Jon Snow lowered his sword an inch and tried not to let the grief show on his face. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“You are him though?” The boy beseeched, “Aren’t you?”

“Aye.” Jon replied with a sigh as he lowered his sword properly, “That’s me. And who would you be young man?”

“They call me Aemon. Aemon Steelsong.”

Jon cracked a sad smile as he beheld the boy before him. “And there’s a name I haven’t heard in an even longer time.”

“You know me.” The boy stated.

Jon laughed at that. “I guarded the door of the tent that your mother gave birth to you in as your father fought Stannis Baratheon and his knights. Of course I know you. Aemon Steelsong. Aemon Battle-born. The Wildling Prince.”

“You knew my father?”

“Aye.” Jon replied, his voice hoarse with grief and remembered hurt, “And your mother, and your aunt and a thousand other men and women who you would have known in another life.”

The boy’s face twisted curiously before he shook his head and stepped closer to the fire.

“Lord Snow I beg you that we continue this conversation, but I have sought you out on the most pressing of terms.”

Jon grunted and turned back to the fire. “How’d you find me?” He asked, “And how’d you survive that blizzard?”

“Would you mind if I sat down?” Aemon asked, “I’m frightfully cold and my stomach is rumbling like I haven’t eaten in a week.”

“When did you eat last?”

“Don’t know.” The boy replied with a shrug as he crouched low by the fire. “Could have been a few days ago, maybe a week.”

Jon reached into his pack and pulled out some dried jerky. “Here.” He said as he thrust the meat at the boy, “Eat.”

Aemon Steelsong ripped the jerky from his hands and tore into it greedily. He groaned in appreciation. “S’good.” He mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Really good.”

Jon nodded and pulled out a beaten tin mug before breaking some pine leaves into it. He poured some of the water from his pot into the tin and handed that to the boy as well. “Drink this,” He told him, “It’ll warm you up.”

Jon sat in silence and watched the boy as he ate and drank. When he had his fill Jon leant forward. “You haven’t answered my questions Aemon Steelsong. How did you find me?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Luck I guess. We heard a rumour that you had been sighted in the sheepshead hills. I convinced a captain to sail me to the weeping water, but he only took me as far as the ruins of White Harbour. I trekked my way north from there and here I am.”

“Was it that simple was it?”

The boy grinned with the amusement and arrogance that only the youthful can muster. “There was a little bit more to it, but I won’t bore you with the details.”

“What are you doing here Aemon?”

“I’ve come to get you.” Aemon replied, “We have need of you. Uncle Sam says that you are our last hope.”

“Uncle Sam?” Jon asked his heart daring to lift, “As in Samwell Tarly?”

“Aye that’s his full name, but no one calls him that anymore. No one cept’ Gilly and that’s only when Uncle Sam’s done something wrong.”

Jon’s head spun. “Sam and Gilly live? Both Sam and Gilly are still alive? Where are they?”

“We live on an island called The Arbour. It’s safe there they say. There the Others can’t get us. Uncle Sam says they can’t cross waters, and so far he’s not been proved wrong.”

“The Arbour…” Jon breathed out.

“Aye, and we have desperate need of you Jon Snow. You are the Last Hero, our last hope.”

Silence hung heavily in the air at those words, and Jon’s black eyes darkened even further. “No.” Jon sighed, "I'm none of those things. Not a hero, not a hope…just a failure. An old and broken man.”

Aemon Steelsong watched him warily over the top of the tin cup. Beside him Ghost snuffled closer into him.

“I have something for you.” Aemon said as he leant over the fire, “It’s a letter from Uncle Sam.”

Jon took the piece of parchment from the boys hands and inspected the seal. It was pressed in plain white wax, with no signet to distinguish it to any lord. He cracked the seal quickly and scanned the words within.

He finished reading and put the letter down before turning back to the fire. Ghost snuffled into him further and Jon absentmindedly scratched him on his stomach. The silence in the cave stretched on, and across from him Aemon Steelsong was almost shaking with anticipation.

“Well?” He asked him, “What does it say?”

Jon glanced at him. “He didn’t tell you what was in it?”

“No.”

“Read for yourself.” Jon replied as he picked up the letter and thrust it at him.

The boy blushed and ducked his head. “I can’t read.” He muttered. “Uncle Sam always tried to teach me but I never was good at learning me letters. Much to Uncle Sam’s shame.”

Jon cracked a smile at that. “He wants me to attempt another expedition beyond the ruins of the wall.”

“An expedition?” Aemon cried, his voice full of excitement, “Can I come?”

“There’s nought for any of us beyond that wall but misery and grief, Aemon.” Jon told him, feeling like an old man again. “I would know that better than any.”

“Have you been out there before?”

Jon stared the boy in the eyes, though he beheld him without seeing him. “Aye.” He admitted, “More times than I care to count. And every time I have gone beyond that accursed wall good men and women have died. Every expedition, every ranging, every scouting…all of them end in disaster. That land belongs not to man, but to the cold gods…to the Others. If the Old Gods will it, hopefully I will never be back in those lands again.”

His voice was harsh, perhaps harsher than he had intended it to be. The boy’s face was red, and he looked scared.

“Sorry.” Jon said gruffly as he turned back to the fire, “I should not have spoken so, but that land holds no fond memories for me.”

“No, no, no.” Aemon cried his hands outstretched, “It was wrong of me to ask. Uncle Sam always said my mouth would get me in trouble, I tend to talk too much he says.”

“Is there anything Sam says you’re good at?” Jon asked, “From what you’ve said he tells you off for a lot.”

“I’m good with a sword!” The boy cried, “There aren’t no one who can beat me in the yard back in the Arbour. I’m the best of all the pages and squires!”

For some reason that did not surprise him. He remembered another fight in the courtyard of Castle Black, where a man wearing a glamour of bones had demolished him. He had never faced a better swordsman than this boy’s father, with perhaps the exception of Qhorin Halfhand.

“Who trained you?” Jon asked.

“Ser Desmond of Grape Vines, the greatest knight in all the lands!”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh.” Aemon said, “I suppose that’s not too surprising though. You wouldn’t get much news up here would you?”

“I get news when I need it.” Jon replied. “I’ve walked as far south as what’s left of King’s Landing. There’s plenty of news to be found along the way. I know all the names of the heroes that tried to be. I know of Ser Symon Staunton and Lord Garlan the Gallant. I know of the Brightsmile and the Darkstar and of the Knight of the Weeping Woman. All those heroes that claimed they would save this continent are dead though, and I’m still here. No good comes of making your name known to loud, boy, and best you remember that.”

Jon yawned and pulled his sleeping shawl around him. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sleep well. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“We do?” Aemon asked, his energy and enthusiasm seemingly infinite. “Where are we going?”

“To see your Uncle Sam.” Jon replied as he closed his eyes and lay back his head, “And hopefully to convince him that his idea is horrible.”


End file.
